


To the Core

by dornfelder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, BDSM elements, Lots of dialogue, M/M, Restraints, also dialogue, and a little porn, dub-con if you squint, episode coda, of the emotional blackmail kind, spn 9.12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 04:52:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1213375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornfelder/pseuds/dornfelder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Addressing the issue, Winchester style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Core

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to J. (puppyeyedcas) for encouragement when I needed it, and C. (sassnatural_sammy) for great beta work! 
> 
> I started writing this right after 9.12, and the scene between Sam and Dean at the end of 9.13 took me by surprise – I hadn’t expected the show to be this bold in addressing the co-dependency between Sam and Dean. I chose a slightly different angle to resolve this. Enjoy ;-)

_My terms,_ what’s that supposed to mean? 

They’re driving in silence, which is nothing new, not even the tension between them – they’ve been pissed at each other before, for various reasons, and it’s not like Dean doesn’t know why. He knows exactly why. He just doesn’t know _what now._

Sam doesn’t trust him. Not a surprise, and it’s not unwarranted, now is it? He screwed up, big time, but what choice did he have? Sam’s going to come around and see that. It’s what brothers do, screw up, forgive each other. He’s forgiven Sam plenty. Ruby. Lucifer. Purgatory. 

They’re leaving town, in vague home direction. 

Home. The bunker. His home, not Sam’s, maybe if he puts a white picket fence around it, plants some pansies on the bank, maybe then Sam would see the appeal. 

Dean turns his head to the side, expecting to see Sam’s profile as he’s looking straight ahead, bitch face on. Instead Sam is looking at _him_ , as if he’s been waiting for it, and meets Dean’s gaze evenly. Dean shakes his head, steps on the gas. “Dude, quit staring at me like that, it’s creepy.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, and Dean doesn’t turn his head again. 

It’s this, apparently: hours on the road in lasting silence, the tension never going out of Dean’s shoulders.

~~~~~  
They stop at a gas station in Dyersville, Iowa. Sam books their rooms in the inn down the street while Dean refuels. As he locks the gas cap, a key is tossed into his direction, the keychain with an oddly lathed piece of wood attached to it. _The Lodge,_ the inscription reads. Peachy. 

“You go ahead. I’ll get food,” Sam says. 

Eating out is not on the table, obviously. “Awesome. Don’t forget the beer.” 

But Dean’s been talking to the gas pump; Sam’s already gone. He shrugs, feeling cold under his jacket. Fucking Iowa. 

The room has two queens. So Sam wants to share, which Dean didn’t think he would, but what does he know? He takes the bed closest to the door and throws his duffel bag on it. It’s a nice bed, iron framework and flowery, red-and-orange coverlets. Big fluffy pillows, really cozy. Furniture that doesn’t look like it’s going to fall apart, sturdy, polished wood, not the laminated chipboard crap they encounter in the majority of motels they stay in. How much did Sam pay for the night? Money isn’t an issue right now, with the Men of Letters resources at their disposal, but still, it’s the principle of things. Or maybe not right now. If Sam wants to indulge, then by all means. 

Dean checks his phone, no missed calls, nothing from Cas. A short message form Garth. _Thank you. You’re always welcome here, Garth and Bess._

Dean snorts, deletes it and pulls out the newspaper he bought at the gas station. With the angels adding to the mess of monsters, demons, and the occasional leviathan still on the loose, there’s plenty of cases all over the states. Sure enough, a girl disappeared from the local High School in Algona, and was found in the woods, lacking her head, heart and hands, and only that. Head, heart, hands? Dean shakes his head, circles it with a pen. Something to look into online. Something for Sam to research. That’s what Sam loves doing, right? Right.

Sam comes back with the usual load of fries, burgers, salad. No pie, no beer, but a bottle of Jack. Dean raises his eyebrow, says nothing, and Sam looks at him blankly. They eat in silence. Dean shoves the newspaper at Sam as they’re halfway through, nudging him with a foot as Sam refuses to acknowledge its existence. 

“No,” Sam says, and looks at him with steady eyes. 

“Come on, Sam. We can’t be partners if we ain’t hunting. Them’s the breaks.”

“Not this time,” Sam says. “Not right now. We need to talk.”

Dean puts his fork on the table, he didn’t like the salad in the first place, why did he even try? No use in making concessions. He grimaces at the bowl, wipes his mouth with the napkin. 

“We’ve been over this, Sam. I broke your trust. I lied to you, and I got Kevin killed. But we agreed that we’re going to be partners, all right? You wanna be pissed at me, fine – let’s keep doing what we’re good at, huh? Find a way to gank that son of a bitch Gadreel. Stab a knight of hell. Get rid of Crowley.” 

Sam’s expression doesn’t change. 

“Sam, let’s move one, okay? I promise, I won’t lie to you again. I know you don’t have a reason to trust me right now, but ...”

“Are you done?” 

Dean pauses, furrows his brow. 

“Are you even listening to yourself?” Sam asks. “It’s like – did you even get any of what I was saying to you?” He shakes his head in exasperation. “Talking to you is like talking to a brick wall – you listen, then you go ahead and pretend nothing has changed, you go on the same way as before. I can’t do that anymore, Dean. I told you, something’s broken - and you were the one who did that. It can’t be fixed just like this.”

“Sam. Sam!” 

Sam let his breath out, impatient, stares Dean down with a hard, uncompromising gaze. 

“What do you want me to do?” Dean hears himself say. He’s so tired of it all, of Sam looking at him like this, like Dean really is a stranger for him. “What should I have done?”

“You should have let me go,” Sam says. “When I was dying after the church, you should have let me.”

“After all we’ve been through? I made you stop the trials, I couldn’t – I _can’t._ ”

“I get it,” Sam says. “What I want to know is _why_.”

“Why? Oh, come on, Sammy, you know why. You don’t need to ask me that.”

“Just answer the freaking question, Dean.” 

“You’re my little brother, Sammy. I promised to protect you, and that’s not just a job, okay? It’s not just – not just a case or a mission – it’s who I _am._ I can’t change that. If you don’t know that – that I would give anything for you to be safe ...”

“Don’t you see how fucked up that is? Don’t you see how this is what gets us into all these messes?” Sam asks. 

And that’s ... “That’s not true, Sam, and you know it.” It’s just not. 

“When Jake stabbed me, and you made a demon deal. You couldn’t cope, you sold your soul to bring me back. And when your time was up and we hadn’t found a way out of it? It almost killed me when you went to hell and I couldn’t do anything. I went looking for a way to bring you back, and I was downright _obsessed_ with vengeance, and Ruby used that against me. That’s what came out of you putting me first, that was what started it all. Lilith. Lucifer. Everything.”

“No it wasn’t. It was bound to happen anyway, remember what they all told us about fate? How all the demons, all the angels, worked so hard to make it happen? And we stopped it, Sam. Because we told them take their fate and shove it up their asses. It was you who put Lucifer and Michael back in that cage. And you did it ...”

Sam shakes his head. “I did it because it was the right thing to do. You were half-dead at the time, or you would have tried to stop me, don’t pretend you wouldn’t have. And you know what? I was fine with it, because at least it would be over, at least you would get away. But then Cas pulled me out and the whole thing started again.”

“You weren’t fine with it! Your soul was Lucifer’s chew toy, you weren’t _fine._ ”

“It was my decision, Dean. How – how come no one ever respects my decisions? How is it that you can’t accept them? In that church – you should have let me go through with it. You should have let me go. We had the chance to close hell, and we didn’t.”

“I know that, Sam. Don’t you think I don’t know exactly what I did?”

Sam’s eyes are fixed on him. “I think you know _what_ you did, but not _why._ ”

Dean clutches the edge of the table. “I did it for you, Sam!” 

It’s too close to yelling, and they don’t need a shouting match here, of all places, so Dean digs his fingers into the hard, wooden surface. Sam merely shakes his head, and why does that feel worse than a punch to the gut? 

“That’s what you keep telling yourself but it isn’t true,” Sam says. “It wasn’t for me. It was for _you._ I want to know why you keep holding on to me like this. Why you can’t let go of me, why you can’t accept me walking away from you.”

“I – _what_?”

“When Jessica died,” Sam says, eyes posing a challenge. “When she died, that was convenient for you wasn’t it? Because I had walked away from you and then I was back. At your side, where you wanted me to be. You had me on a leash and I didn’t even realize it, because I was hooked on vengeance for mom and Jess, and looking for dad – but you didn’t really care about any of that, did you. Sure, you cared about dad, and finding the monster that had killed mom, but you weren’t –“

Dean’s hands are shaking, and it takes effort to keep them steady. “Oh, come on, Sam. You’re bringing this up _now_? Do you really think that I would wish that on anyone ...“

“No,” Sam says. “Of course not. That’s not what I said, but - deep down, a part of you was just glad that I was back on board.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Sam looks at him again, and Dean swallows with a dry throat. Sam’s not even furious, he’s just – resigned? Weary? Sam sighs, shoulders slumping. His eyes don’t leave Dean’s. 

“We were in this huge mess the whole time – we had to deal with all of those demons, and then the angels and the apocalypse – I never had the time to think about it, I never had the distance, and I – I guess I was too young, too blind, to see. And then Purgatory came and I – I fell apart and I was out of my mind grieving for you, but it also felt like I was finally free to breathe because you were not stringing me along anymore. So I tried to leave it all behind, and my life was – normal, kind of – and I just barely started to realize just how fucked-up our whole relationship had been.

“Then you came back and I felt guilty, for abandoning Kevin, you were right, that was pretty shitty of me. Then we got the demon tablet and went back hunting like there hadn’t been a break – and I don’t regret it, Dean, it was my decision, and I still felt that I had to prove something, that I had to make up for every single thing I screwed up. When the trials came up I was just glad that I could do it. I was glad that it was on me.” 

“Sam ...” Dean barely recognizes his own voice. “Sammy ...” he’s pleading, but for what?

“In that church, I was weak, I was literally falling apart, physically, and I was scared, and then you came and I couldn’t say no to you. You’re still the one pulling my strings, Dean. It would have been the right thing to finish these trials, but you took that from me, and I let you. You made me come back from a place where there’s no coming back from, and then, because you couldn’t let it all be for nothing, you tricked me into letting in Gadreel. And I don’t think – I don’t think I can go on without knowing, why is it that you can’t let me go?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says. His eyes are stinging, he blinks. “I just – I can’t. That’s not who I am.”

They stare at each other, and for a moment, Sam’s eyes grow wider, softer – but then his gaze hardens, he pulls his shoulders together as if he’s steeling himself. Warding himself against Dean, and fuck, that shouldn’t hurt so badly. 

“When we were at Sonny’s. I know that he offered to let you stay, Dean, I’m not stupid. I know you came back for me.” 

“You were … you were just twelve, Sam. I couldn’t let you down, okay.”

“While you were at Sonny’s, I was at Bobby’s. I was happy there too. Bobby wanted me to stay, but dad knew that you wouldn’t come if it weren’t for me, so he told me to pack, that we would go and get you. And I had missed you, so of course I didn’t protest too much. He used me against you. We both know that wasn’t the first time, or the last.”

“Fuck. Dad – he was ...” _A manipulative bastard._ Hearing Sam say it, lay it out for him like that, hurts; worse than when he told himself the same thing, in that secret, dark and silent corner of his mind, where truths lie hidden that he can’t look at too closely. 

“He played us both. And you knew that, even then, you knew exactly what he was doing, and you still came back. Why? 

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t just -” Dean’s eyes are stinging again, he wipes them with his sleeve, snuffles, tries to pretend he didn’t just do that. He wants to get out of here, wants to get up and leave, take the bottle and run. “Why are you even asking?”

“Dean, you keep sacrificing everything for me. Your chance of a future at Sonny’s – a future that didn’t require putting your life on the line on a regular basis. Your chance of happiness with Lisa, and Ben, and whoever else you never even gave a chance, whoever you keep at a distance. And now you’re throwing away your integrity as a hunter – you team up with Crowley, and you know exactly know how fucked up that is, that it’s going to come back and bite you in the ass. The Mark of Cain, Dean, really? And then, the next day, you turn around and almost slaughter a whole family just because you need to reinforce the message that you’re still on the right track. But you’re not, Dean.”

“Sam, stop.” Sam’s not content with cracking him open, this time - he’s trying to break him apart, and it’s working, it’s working.

“You want me to stop? I can do that, but then it’s over. We’re doing this now, Dean, and we’re doing this right. For once we’re going to do this right. We’ve messed up too many times. Okay?”

Dean can’t answer, even if he knew what to say. His breathing is ragged, and he holds on to the edge of the table with sweaty, cramping hands. 

“For a long time, I thought it was all me. The demon blood, that was me, that was me being – tainted. I don’t know. Then Ruby. Lilith. Lucifer. I got him, back in Detroit, but – it was a close call. And the thing is, I was so caught up in the whole mess that I failed to see the real problem. You – and me – and this thing we have where it’s all mixed up - being family, being hunters, and – Dean, don’t you see it? Don’t you see how unhealthy this is? This is not what being brothers is supposed to be.”

“Then what – what am I supposed to do? I can’t change that. I can’t change who I am, I can’t -” Dean wants to smash something, clenches his hands into fists. There’s a wax stain on the table cloth, and he stares at it, intently, because maybe then he won’t erupt into violence.

“You need to stop lying, Dean. We both do. No more secrets. And no more decisions over my head. That’s what I meant when I said that being brothers doesn’t cut it anymore. I’ve been your little brother my whole life, you’ve always taken the lead and I followed, and that’s not working anymore, it’s not working, and it needs to stop.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Dean says. The table cloth is a faint yellow, like pus. He wants to vomit all over it.

“You had plenty of choices, but you keep doing the same thing over and over again. That’s why I can’t follow you anymore, because you have no idea what you’re doing, you just keep running, and the worse it gets, the faster you run. But we’re out of options, Dean, this is going nowhere good. Kevin. Making deals with Crowley. What next?”

“What do you want me to do? What do you want me to do, Sammy?” 

“I need you to stop running. I need you to stop making deals for me, and stop making it all about me, when it’s never been about me in the first place.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“You took the Mark of Cain’s. The mark of someone who killed his own brother to see him safe in heaven rather than give him to Lucifer. Yet you couldn’t let me die in peace, and made me an angel’s puppet without giving me a choice.”

“That’s – that’s not what I did, oh, come on!”

“You made that decision for you, you didn’t make it for me – I was fine with dying, going to heaven. Death told me he’d guide me there. Not a reaper. _Death_ was there, and he told me that I had done good. And I felt like I could be at peace – that it would finally be over – but you couldn’t let me walk away from you, and I want to know why, you owe me the truth, Dean.”

“I – I just couldn’t.” Dean’s past the point where alcohol is going to fix that mess, he’s past the point where he can counter Sam’s arguments with rage. 

Sam takes a deep breath and gets up from his chair. Dean stares at the fold the table leg makes on the carpet, the fringes tangled and dirty. 

“But the thing is, you’re not the only one who screws up. It’s not only you, Dean. In that church, when I stopped – I did it for you. Because it was what you wanted. But I was just a coward, because I didn’t want to be the cause of grief, and suffering, for you. I didn’t want to be the reason why you would beat yourself up over my death. And I always follow your lead in the end, so that was easier than to keep going when you told me not to. When I saw the fear in your eyes.”

“No, Sammy. You’re not – I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Dean whispers, and he is, and he would do it again in a heartbeat, and Sam knows it, they both know it. Dean closes his eyes, as if that would help him unsee the shuttered look on Sam’s face. 

“That’s not enough,” Sam says. “I need more than that.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“The truth, Dean. Why do you want me to live, at the expense of anything else?”

“You’re all I have, okay? You’re – you’re the one thing that’s worth living for, Sammy, don’t you get it? I’m – I’m too messed up. If you were gone, then I wouldn’t be able to go on. And you have – you have no idea how messed up I really am. What it’s like -” 

Dean barely manages to stop himself, before he’s getting too close to that door in his mind. He knows what’s behind and it’s not pretty. It’s not. 

“I think I do,” Sam says.

Dean laughs. “I know you don’t.”

“You’re feeling guilty for existing, Dean, you’re literally feeling guilty for anything that ever went wrong in our lives, and you think you don’t deserve to be happy, and I know why. I know why and I can’t let you pretend that you don’t. I want you to admit it, I need you to come out and say it.”

“Well, I can’t,” Dean whispers. Whatever Sam thinks he knows, he’s dead wrong. 

Sam stares at him for a long time. Dean, for once, has no words for him, has nothing left to say. Is this the end? Is this what will make Sam leave for good? Then Sam nods once, face taut with concentration. 

“Okay. I get it. But I meant it when I said that I need you to stop lying to me. To yourself. And if you want to keep going, as partners, then I need you to trust me.”

“I do.”

“Really? Do you trust me? Completely? Unconditionally? Enough for you to do exactly as I say?” 

Alarm bells are ringing in Dean’s head, but it’s hard to hear them over the numbness of too much truth, served to him too hot, too toxic to stomach. “What do you mean?” 

“You say you trust me, but I don’t think you really do. Are you willing to prove it, without any questions asked? Can you do that, or can you not?”

“What – what are you going to do, Sam?”

Sam shrugs. “My terms, Dean. You either trust me and do as I say, or you don’t, and I’m out. And I won’t come back. It’s this, or me leaving for good.”

“I found you before.”

“You won’t, not this time.” Sam puts the remnants of their meal back in the bag, throws it into the rubbish bin beside the sink, carelessly. “You still don’t get it, do you? I’m not going to change my mind. If you’re thinking that you can just gloss over it, distract me with a few easy cases – that all will be forgotten in a few weeks – well, not this time. You still think I’m pissed at you? I was. But then I realized that being pissed at you didn’t change anything; it just gives you an excuse to feel guilty and act like a martyr. And I’m not going to put up with that. It’s either or. Your choice.”

“What – what exactly do you have in mind?”

“As I said. It’s about trust. You say you trust me, but how far are you willing to go?”

Dean wets his lips. “That’s – that’s not fair, Sam.”

“You betrayed me, Dean. _You did that._ You want to fix it? Well, I’m offering you a chance. Under my conditions.”

Fair enough. “I’ll do it,” Dean says, before the courage leaves him. 

Sam nods, just the once. “Good.” 

He turns around, grabbing the car keys form Dean’s nightstand. “I am going to get some stuff from the car. You stay here. Strip down to boxers, stand by the bed.” 

And he’s out of the door.

“What the fuck?” Dean asks the empty room. 

~~~~~  
What is Sammy planning? Mind games? Torture, or some kind of spell he wants to perform, with Dean as the ritual sacrifice? Shit, no. 

His skin is not longer fitting him right. Sam got under it, and Dean has no idea why, or what’s going on in Sam’s head. But Sam was dead serious, and Dean agreed, he can’t drop out now. He’s not going to lose Sam over this. And what does it matter? If Dean has to bleed for this, he’s going to do it. He deserves it. Kevin had his eyes burnt out of his skull, Dean’s going to survive whatever it is Sam has in mind for him. He can bear it, he can. 

But – but he’s never driven Sam to such extreme measures, and yes, it is frightening, he can admit as much to himself.

So it’s this, obviously: getting out of his clothes, telling himself this isn’t awkward in the least. They see each other in various states of undress on a regular basis. Dean’s never been shy, he’s not going to start now. 

What supplies did Sam mean? Knives? Tasers? Is this going to be some kind of punishment, or some test of endurance, see how much Dean can take before he breaks? Dean smiles crookedly. He got tortured by Alastair. Pretty sure Sam won’t be able to compete. 

By the time Sam gets back, Dean is standing beside the bed, stripped down to his underwear, as ordered. Sam looks him over once, nods in acknowledgment. He turns his back to Dean and lays a couple of things out on the table, covering them with the table cloth so that Dean can’t see them. 

“All right, Sammy,” Dean says. Does his voice sounds as raw to Sam as it does to him? “What’s it gonna be?”

Sam takes his jacket off and starts rolling up his sleeves. “I am going to blindfold you, and put you in handcuffs. Tie your arms up. Your safeword is ‘Impala’. You use it, I’ll stop.”

“You – _you gotta be kidding me._ ”

Sam doesn’t answer but unbuttons the other sleeve.

“Kinky stuff, huh, Sammy? Not sure I’m into that. What about being old-fashioned and starting with first base?”

The corner of Sam’s mouth curls up slightly. “But I _did_ buy you dinner.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, slowly. “You did.”

Like the sun on a cloudy day, teasing with just a hint of warmth, the smile disappears, leaving Sam’s face impassive, leaving Dean shivering with cold on the inside.

“You can drop out if you want to.”

“And then you’ll walk out on me?”

Sam shrugs.

“Okay. I’ll go with this, Sam, but – a blindfold? Really?”

“It’s about trust, Dean.”

Dean clears his dry throat. “Right.” 

“I want you to stop asking question, and answer _mine_ , as clear and honest as you can.”

“Do I need to call you _sir_ , Sammy?”

“No,” Sam says. “This is not a joke, Dean.”

“I get that,” Dean mutters. 

Sam turns up the heat then starts warding the room with salt and devil’s traps and angel-proofing symbols, making it as safe as possible. Dean is standing there, watching him. Couldn’t have Sam done this in the bunker? Whatever. It doesn’t take long, but Dean’s hands are itching, hanging uselessly by his side until he crosses them over his chest. Sam’s finally done, and a few moments later, he stands in front of Dean, handcuffs in hand. 

Dean twitches, almost balks. He closes his eyes, chanting in his head. _Just Sam. Not a trap. Just Sam. Not a trap._ He holds out his hands.

Sam slips them on, they lock around his wrists with a click, and Dean grits his teeth. 

“Lift them over your head,” Sam advises, winding a rope between his hands as Dean complies. He throws one end over the one of the beams of the joist ceiling. Dean curses the woodwork interior in his mind. The beams won’t give in even if he lets them bear his whole weight; they’re too solid.

“You do that often?” Dean asks lightly.

Sam sees right through it, snorts. “Fake bravado.”

“Fuck you, Sam.”

Sam gives a last tug to the ropes. “There. All set.”

Dean clenches his jaw. He moves his hands, doesn’t get far. His legs are free, allowing him to shift his weight. He’s gotten out of situations worse than this, though not many. 

“The things I do for love, Sammy.” 

He waits for it, waits for Sam to raise his brow in recognition. It doesn’t happen.

Sam turns toward him with the blindfold, holding it up in silence wordlessly. Dean gulps. Nods.

It slides over his eyes, taking his sight from him, and Sam, who learned how to tie it properly from the same teacher as Dean, doesn’t fuck around. Dean takes a deep breath, hating how his other senses immediately go into overdrive. The fabric reeks of must and gun oil, familiar. Dean’s going to remember this whenever he’s on the road now, whenever he smells that particular smell. Impala. Safeword. Makes sense, and yet, could Sam have chosen one that would be more cliché?

His hair is standing on end from the air flow alone. And maybe from the uncertainty. Dean tries to prepare for anything. Pain, mostly. “Get this show on the road, all right?”

Sam moves around, and Dean doesn’t know what he’s doing. He relies on his hearing, which tells him where Sam is, but not much beyond that. He knows better than to say something – he’s accepted Sam’s rules, and it’s playtime now, obviously. He doesn’t know much about this kind of stuff, but he’s fairly sure that mocking Sam means breaking the rules. 

Shit. _Shit fuck._ Why did he even – 

“Dean.” 

“Yeah?” Whoa, is that really his own voice? 

“You want something to drink? Water?”

“Nah, I’m good.” Unless it’s whiskey Sam’s offering.

Sam doesn’t reply, just circles him, soft footsteps on the carpet – how does he manage to be so stealthy, a man of his size? 

“Something you’re looking at specifically?” Dean bites his lips immediately after. Sam already knows how far out of his comfort zone he is, no need to make it even more obvious. 

“I’m looking at your scars,” Sam says. “You got new ones since Cas healed you.”

“Yeah.” Dean imagines Sam’s eyes wandering over his skin, looking closely with those inquisitive, perceptive eyes. A shiver runs down his spine. Sam is at his right side now, coming to a halt. He touches Dean’ upper arm, right above a faint, thin scar. 

“I don’t remember this one.”

“Purgatory. Vampire chick, right before Benny stabbed her.” Benny. Another friend Dean sacrificed for Sam. What would Benny say if he knew? Benny, who tried so hard to be good, harder than Dean. 

Sam doesn’t comment on it, apart from a thoughtful hum, and starts pacing again. 

The next touch is to Dean’s stomach. Dean flinches, he’s ticklish there, but also because it’s _unexpected._ Cool fingers on his skin, lingering. 

“Still tender?” Sam asks. “I stitched you up, but it wasn’t my best effort. You should ask Cas to heal it some time.”

“It’s good enough for me,” Dean says. Sam was bleeding, too, from a gash in his thigh. His hands were steady though, steady and clinical, but gentle. Competent. 

Sam’s fingers are still resting on his skin. Slowly, they slide up to his sternum. Dean shivers again under Sam’s touch, skin pebbling and his nipples hardening. The room is still chilly. The heating makes gurgling and scratchy noises; they’re distracting.

“This one’s gone,” Sam comments. “It was old. I remember the day you got it. Dad was hunting an evil spirit in Illinois, and he got you with the crowbar. Just a scratch, but it got infected and scarred pretty badly.”

“I didn’t mind,” Dean says. “Could tell the chicks I got it in a knife fight. Made me look more badass.” 

Sam’s fingers glide over his pectorals. “Getting familiar there, huh, Sammy? ”

All the places Sam touches are starting to tingle. Dean bites his lips, tries not to let it affect him.

“That’s kind of the point,” Sam says. He steps to the side, comes to a stand behind Dean. Fingers trail along Dean’s spine, then travel to the left. “I don’t remember where the burn scar was. From that one time we caught a wendigo in – where was it? South Dakota?” 

“A bit higher,” Dean says, and it’s becoming harder to pretend this isn’t getting to him. What is Sam doing, what is he trying to accomplish? Why are his touches so gentle, inquiring, why isn’t he hitting Dean, beating the crap out of him?

The next touch is to his kneecap, shorter, just a tap. “Your knees are fine now, are they? I know you complained a few times before you came back from hell.” 

“They’re fine, Sam.” 

“That’s good,” Sam says. “I don’t like it when you’re hurting.”

Dean inhales and all of a sudden, the slight shivers turn into a full-blown tremble. “What are you doing. Sam. What are you doing.”

“Do you need to stop?” Sam asks. 

Nothing happened. Nothing happened, but Dean is on edge. “No. No. Just –“

“I’m here, Dean.” Sam lays a hand on his shoulder, a comforting touch, and Dean can’t help but lean into it. He’s coming apart at the seams, takes another deep breath, trying to get a grip. He’s suspended in darkness; Sam’s the one in control now, after they just had this argument, and Dean – doesn’t like this, not at all. “I get it. I get that you’re pissed at me, I get it – if you want to hurt me, just do it.”

“You’re not listening, Dean,” Sam asks. “I said that I didn’t like it when you’re hurting. This is about trust, not - not about punishment. I don’t want your guilt, or your – your repentance. I want the truth.”

“Which truth.”

“I’m tired of this,” Sam says. “I’m tired of never getting to the core. But I’m going to get there no matter what.”

“By tying me up and groping me?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “By tying you up and _making you trust me._ By telling you that I know you, Dean, I know all of you. It’s just us here, no distraction - no monsters or demons - no car, no music, no roadside view. Just you and me.”

“Yeah, Sammy, that’s what scares me.” No lie, and Dean wishes it were. 

“I know. Dean. You don’t need to pretend. You can let go, I’m here.”

“I have no idea what you want from me.”

Sam sighs. “Okay.” He pauses again behind Dean. Both of his hands – callused, warm, so fucking big – come to rest on Dean’s shoulders. “Like this, Dean. What do you think about me?”

“What?”

“What do you think of me? How would you describe me?”

What fucked-up mind game is that? “You’re my brother.”

“What else?”

“You – you’re Sam. You’re a hunter. You’re – tall. Taller than me. You have brown hair, and you need a haircut. You always need a haircut.”

Dean’s fingers twitch, he tries to still them. Fat chance Sam didn’t notice. 

“You used to cut my hair when I was little,” Sam says softly.

“You told me to stop when you were fourteen.” Why does it hurt to think about it, think about the day when Sam pulled away with exasperation. _I don’t want to, Dean. It’s my hair, not yours; if I want to wear it longer, then I’m damn well going to._

“Do you know why?” Sam asks. 

Dean shakes his head. “Does it matter? You didn’t want me to do it, so I stopped.”

“You used to run your hands through it, a lot.” 

“It was soft,” Dean says, as if it means nothing. As if he isn’t close to crying. Because he misses it, misses it so badly. Still. How can he still miss it? “Mine was always shorter.” What an odd ting to say. 

And then Sam touches his hair. Runs one of these giant paws through it, tugging at it, just a little bit, and Dean bites his lips and hisses, because otherwise, he’ll moan. “Sam. Stop it.”

Sam stops. 

“I wonder, what else did I take away from you?” Sam asks, and Dean can’t answer, doesn’t trust himself. The darkness weakens his resolve, makes him more sensitive to Sam’s touch, more susceptible for the clues he gets from Sam’s voice – it’s dangerous. Exhausting. 

“Do you remember when the angels sent us to heaven?”

Out of the frying pan, right onto the grill, with the flames licking at him where it hurts. “Yeah.”

“What we saw – those scenes – they were not everything. They were just pieces, Dean. If we had stayed for longer, you would have seen the other things too. It wasn’t – it wasn’t just me running away from you. There was this day, back then when we spent the summer on the west coast, with dad tracking a string of murders back to that hobo with his cursed bag of bones. We got a day for ourselves while dad bought ammunition, and we went to the beach. Do you remember? I think it was shortly after you came back from Sonny’s.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, recalling the shore, secluded and peaceful, with no one around for miles. Dad let him drive the impala. Some kind of reward for getting back on track, being a good boy. 

“We had he beach to ourselves. So we didn’t put on any clothes and I know I got sand everywhere, we didn’t even have real towels, but – who cares? I remember that day, Dean, and you were lying on the sand next to me and dosing off, smiling – at the sky, at the sea – at me. I found some shells, and I kept them in my trunk for years. After you had gone to hell, I dreamed of that day. I never told you, did I, how I had nightmares for months?”

Dean doesn’t want to think of it. “I came back.”

“Because Cas pulled you out. And it came with a price, remember? We always pay a price, whenever one of us does something stupid. And when we lie to each other, it only gets worse.”

“I know.”

“Then stop lying to me, Dean.”

Sam has stopped in front of him. He’s speaking softly, his breath grazes Dean’s forehead. 

Dean’s dick is half-hard, and he’s only wearing boxers, he can’t hide it. “Sam.” 

“Be honest with me. I promise you, nothing bad is going to happen.”

“You can’t … you can’t promise me that.” 

“I can. You and me, remember? You’re safe with me, Dean.”

“No. You don’t know –”

Sam’s fingers stroke over his jaw, his cheekbone. Dean turns his head away sharply. “Stop.”

“Do you remember your safeword? I want to hear you say it.”

“Impala.” The closest thing he has to a family home, so many memories, and a distinct smell and the sound of the engine – just thinking about it helps, makes him feel more grounded. 

“Good. You say that, in earnest, I’ll stop. Dean. Until then, we’ll keep going.”

Sam takes a step back, and the next question comes from a greater distance. “Why do you think it didn’t work out between Lisa and you?”

“Huh?” As if Sam’s been talking in another language, the words are so unexpected. “What?” 

“Why didn’t you stay with her, Dean?”

“I - I just really missed hunting.” 

“I thought she was the one for you, but that wasn’t true, was it? She was what you thought I would want. What you thought _you should_ want. And she had Ben, that’s what made her special.”

“Don’t – don’t talk about her like this. Don’t talk like it was a lie or anything -”

“The moment you saw I was back, you left her, Dean.”

“Don’t. Just – don’t. Leave her out of this.” Dean licks his dry lips, heart pounding. “That’s one step too far, Sam, _back the fuck off._ ”

“I’m sorry,” Sam says. “I’m sorry. Amelia – I think Amelia was my Lisa. Meg called her a unicorn, something – something you chase, a dream you pursue, but it’s not real. And Meg was right. It didn’t work out because it wasn’t her that I wanted, and it didn’t mean enough for me to fight for her. You were back, and I left her, just like that, because that’s how we work. It’s always been us, Dean. And that’s, that’s not going to change, we’re in too deep. It’s mutual, Dean, it’s why I’d follow you to hell and back, it’s why I didn’t complete the trials when you asked me to stop. And I need to you to see it. I need to you feel it.”

“It’s not the same,” Dean says. For the first time he’s actually glad for the blindfold, his eyes might give him away. “It never was. I always – you never – ”

“Never what?” Sam asks, sharply, and Dean’s hands clench into fists, he bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood. 

“You’re not like me – you’re nothing like me.”

“Tell me the truth, Dean. I need you to trust me.”

“Don’t. Don’t make me.” Dean is shaking, he can’t control it, and starts tugging at the chains. “Let me go. Sam. Let me go, please.”

“Say it, Dean.”

“Fuck you,” Dean says, and his legs are trembling, barely keeping him upright. “Fuck you, Sammy, why are you doing this to me.”

“Say it.”

“I … _I can’t._ ”

“Dean. Dean. Calm down. Stop. Dean. Stop.” Sam’s hands are on this shoulder, steadying him, and Dean tries to kick him, aimlessly, ineffectively, like a child. “You’re scared. I get that. I am too. But you’ve got to stop hiding, Dean, you’ve got to stop thinking that this is just on you. It’s not.”

Dean stops struggling. He turns his head away. “Untie me.”

Sam lets go of him, takes a step back. “I’m not done with you. If you want to drop out now because you’re scared – because deep down, you’re too much of a coward for this – then you’ve got to use your safeword.”

“Fuck you,” Dean spits at him. “I’m not a coward, Sam. Of the two of us, I’m not the one who always bails, who always takes the easy way out – I don’t just give up on you.”

“If I had given up, I would have left the second I saw you in the hospital with Garth,” Sam says. “But it’s your choice. Use your safeword, I’ll untie you, and be gone in a minute.”

Gone. Out of his life. And that would be for the best, that would be the right thing to do, but Dean – can’t. He can’t tell Sam to walk away from him. 

“What’s it going to be?” Sam asks, as if he doesn’t already know. 

Dean clenches his jaw, doesn’t reply. He can’t. One word, one tiny word, three fucking syllables, familiar as breathing, but he just can’t make himself say it. So he swallows, closes his mouth. Tries not to think about anything whatever is going to happen.

“All right,” Sam says. “I won’t untie you, not yet. We’re just switching locations.”

Sam takes off the blindfold then unties the knots holding the rope. Dean’s arms are free, still bound by the handcuffs, but he can finally lower them. “What – what now?” he asks. 

“Kneel, Dean.”

“Fuck, no.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, he just waits. He isn’t as calm as he pretends to be, though, his hands are clenching and unclenching, and his breathing is shallower than it should be. He places a pillow on the rug on the long side of the bed, and Dean finds himself staring at it. No way. What is he, a dog?

He glares at Sam, and Sam holds his gaze, challenging him. 

And then, somehow, Dean finds himself going down to his knees. He swallows with a dry throat, staring straight ahead at the far wall.

So it’s this now: going down on his knees for Sam, out of fear, because there’s just no other way.

Sam makes him turn and face the bed, then uses the rope, still linked through the handcuffs, to pull Dean’s arms forward and tie them to the bed posts on the other side, leaving Dean kneeling in front of the bed while his hands are resting on it. The bedding gives off a heavy, too sweet smell of detergent. He’s grateful for the pillow, though he wonders what prompted that much consideration.

“I’m going to put the blindfold back on,” Sam says. Dean doesn’t resist, trying to pretend it doesn’t affect him at all. Warm, slightly unsteady fingers tie the fabric around his head. 

“Do you trust me, Dean? Are you going to let me do what I want?”

It’s fairly obvious where this is going. It’s about trust, that means Dean has to agree to everything. It’s a test. Sam’s not really going to hit him. Soulless Sam, that callous bastard, would have done that in a heartbeat, but Sammy, his little brother? Dean doesn’t think so. 

“I said I would,” Dean says. 

“Good,” Sam says, crouching down behind him, and touches him.

Gentle, careful touches: Sam’s hands stroking down his spine, raising goose bumps in their wake. Dean never knew his back could be that sensitive, and what the fuck? Why is Sam touching him like this? 

He doesn’t get this. Sam’s big, callused hands spreading out on the small of his back, Sam’s breath on his skin. It feels like a dream, or insanity. He shivers. That’s why Sam blindfolded him, wanted him chained – the intensity, the not knowing what’s going to be next. Dean has never done this before, never trusted anyone like this – it’s too dangerous for a hunter, he shouldn’t be doing this even now. 

“Relax, Dean,” Sam says. “I got this.”

Dean grits his teeth. “You relax. What are you doing, making me your bitch?” His heart is pounding in his chest. 

The hands on his back twitch, and Dean mentally prepares for a blow, a slap, anything. But Sam’s fingers spread out again, warm and heavy against his skin. 

“Let me take the lead. That’s all I ask. You agreed, but you’re still trying to keep control. Let go, Dean.”

Dean snorts. What is he, fucking Anastasia Steele? 

He doesn’t get it, so he just keeps shaking his head, while Sam slides his hands all over his body, arms, shoulders, up again and down, to the small of his back and lower, not bothering to take off his shorts but simply sliding over the fabric, over the curves of Dean’s buttocks and lower still, down his thighs. 

Dean tries to hold still, tries not to think about what Sam’s touch, the proximity, is doing to him, these freaking hands, how the darkness makes everything ten times as intense.

“I meant what I said before,” Sam says. “I don’t like it when you’re hurting. I don’t like the man you are now, hanging on by a thread – you keep running even though we’re long past the point where it leads us anywhere. Seeing you like this – it hurts me too. But it hurt more when you broke my trust, when you just didn’t respect my decision. It’s not love when you turn it into a chain around my neck, Dean. It’s not love when you are so afraid of the truth that you can’t face it, when you’re so mixed up in self-loathing and guilt and fear.”

“Psychology 101, Sam?” A weak comeback, and he doesn’t expect Sam to react, which he doesn’t. Instead – 

“Do you love me, Dean?” 

“What?”

“Do you love me, Dean?” Sam asks again, casual as fuck. 

“What kind of question is that?” 

“Just answer it, Dean.”

“Fuck you, Sam. If you really don’t know the answer to this, after all these years, then ...”

“I know the answer, Dean, but I want to hear you say it. Do you?” Sam’s hands rest on his arm, just over the crook of his elbow. 

“What do you think, Sammy?” Dean says, vice wavering. “Yeah. Yeah, okay?” Siblings love each other. That’s okay, that’s fine. “You know me, I just – don’t like saying it, okay.” 

“I know,” Sam says. “But I don’t mind it, so listen, all right? I love you, Dean. And that’s never going to change. But I can’t forgive you, not yet, with things as they are; not as long as you keep holding back. And you do. But you don’t have to. There’s nothing that would make me turn away from you, nothing, except, if you keep lying to me. That’s the deal, Dean.” 

Sam’s hands slide up his arms, up to his neck, thumbs trailing up his nape, up to his hairline, and back down again alternately. His words are a threat; his touch is a reward. Seriously mixed signals, creating an unresolvable contradiction. Dean’s spine curves, his head sinks toward the mattress as he arches into the touch. How long has it been since someone touched him like this? He’s usually on top, what he gets are frantic, greedy touches, nails scratching, sometimes breaking skin. Nothing like this leisurely exploration, mindful and slow. He wants to melt into it. 

“Dean,” Sam says, voice lower than usual. 

And what is this, what is Sam doing here? This feels – this looks like – what would a stranger say if he saw them, Dean kneeling, and Sam behind him touching him like this? 

Dean tenses up, shakes off Sam’s hands. “Stop it. Stop it, Sammy.”

“Dean.” An irresistible force, one Dean cannot counter, nor dodge. “Dean, are you in love with me?” 

The world stops. 

Dean freezes, panic locking his throat, and then his heart starts hammering and he’s shaking, hands clutching the bedspread. 

“ _Son of a bitch,_ ” he whispers. “ _You bastard._ How can –” 

“Are you?”

“Damn you to hell, Sam. _Damn you to fucking hell._ ” 

Dean’s shaking badly now, trying to contain the sobs, but it’s useless. This is wrecking him. His knees are trembling to the point where he just folds into himself, arms still stretched out. Fighting not to let the vertigo overtake him, fighting for each breath, fighting to just hang on, hang on to what? 

“Okay,” Sam says, sounding dazed. “Okay. Wait – wait a second.” He kneels down beside Dean, pulls off his blindfold with trembling hands. Dean doesn’t look at him, shakes his head, tears staining his cheek. Goddamn it.

“Dean. Dean, please, look at me – Dean, don’t you … Don’t you know that it’s the same for me?”

“No,” Dean says. “No.” 

“Yes,” Sam says. He cups Dean’s face with both hands, turning it in his direction, thumbs sliding over his cheekbones. 

“Look at mean. Look at me! I mean it.” 

Dean obeys. Sam’s eyes are wide and shiny, and then Sam leans forward and kisses him.

This. Isn’t. Happening. This isn’t real. A dream, a hallucination – a siren or a shapeshifter in Sam’s body, a demon … 

“Dean,” Sam says. “Stop.” His hands are still on Dean’s face, like it’s something he’s entitled to, like that’s the way they’re touching each other all the time, and what the fuck, _what the fuck?_

“I already knew.”

“Who told you,” Dean whispers. Was it Cas? Lucifer? Meg, Crowley, any of these bastards that can pull secrets out of the depths of your soul? Dean has never slipped once, never given this one up, not ever – not when he was tortured by Alastair, not with Zachariah, not in their memories of each other in heaven. 

“No one did. I figured it out long ago, Dean.”

“Then why are you still here.”

Sam shakes his head a bit. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

“You’re – you’re not yourself.”

“I’m real, Dean, this is real, and you know it. You need to stop feeling guilty about it. You need to stop lying to me. You need to stop thinking you’re worth less because you love me.”

Sam’s face is right in front of him, earnest, so fucking honest.

“No,” Dean says. “This is wrong, and if you were yourself, you’d know that.”

“Really, Dean? After all these years – when God doesn’t care about any of this, when he doesn’t care about humans or angels or this freaking planet – and and you side with Crowley and angels are the bad guys and what’s _right is wrong and what’s wrong is more wrong_ …”

Dean flinches, because yeah, these are his words. 

“... and dad is gone and Bobby, and Cas couldn’t care less about who sticks it where – after all this time, you still think that this is the one line we can’t cross?”

“It’s – it’s not going to happen.”

“It _has_ happened, Dean, and we can’t undo it, there’s no turning back now. It’s all right.” Sam is speaking so insistently, as if he’s talking to a child. “You always held something back. You always kept something for yourself. We’re never going to be equals if you keep doing that, so I won’t let you. This is on me, Dean.” 

“You don’t – you don’t want this.” 

“I do,” Sam says. “And I am going to show you.” 

“The hell you are,” Dean says. “This is not ...”

Sam kisses him again.

“... happening.” But it is, and Sam’s lips press against his, more insistently, and his hands run through Dean’s hair, pulling him close. He hums against Dean’s mouth, probes with his tongue, carefully, gently – and Dean lets him, opens up for him.

Sam makes a pleased sound, inches closer, tilts his head a little to the side, and then they’re kissing for real, a soft, wet slide of tongues and lips. Dean forgets, forgets about anything, except that he wants more of this, _this_ , Sam, this is Sam, kissing him like it’s easy, taking his bottom lip into his mouth and biting it, gently, and Dean wants his hands free so badly. He starts tugging at the chains. 

Sam pulls back, pupils dilated, breathing hard and staring at Dean, looking dazed. 

“Untie me, Sam.”

There’s the hint of a movement, like Sam’s going to get up and do it, _yes, please, finally_ \- and then he shakes his head. 

“Not yet,” he says softly. 

“But ...”

“Not yet. My terms, Dean.”

Sam puts the blindfold back in place. And Dean, head reeling, lets him. He puts his head on the bed, between his arms, exhausted, as Sam gets up and leaves him alone. Floorboards squeak as Sam moves through the room, there’s the rustling of fabric that Dean doesn’t think about; he just doesn’t think about anything, okay? 

And Sam kneels down behind him and resumes the touching as if there had been no interruption, as it there hadn’t been this earth-shattering revelation. 

But then, if he already knew, if he knew …

And this time, with the truth out in the open, Dean recognizes the touch for what it is. A caress. He’s petted and stroked like a spooked horse, Sam’s trying to calm him down, and it works. It works like a charm, until it’s working too well. 

Up, then down again, and Dean shivers, helplessly leaning into the touch. His boxers are tenting and he’s in slipping into a weird headspace, one where Sam’s touch is the thing that holds him together, the thing that keeps him grounded. He starts to get what Sam meant, why he insisted on Dean being tied up and blindfolded. It’s out of his hands. He gave himself over to Sam, and that’s – that’s how it is – and it’s Sam who is doing this, Sam who kissed him, Sam whose hands are wandering into forbidden territory. 

Sam’s thumbs graze the hollow of his knees, and it tickles, making Dean tense under the touch. 

“Sorry,” Sam says, smoothing his hands up Dean’s legs again, until they reach the hem of his boxers, and he doesn’t bother asking, he simply tugs until they come down, freeing Dean’s dick, more than half-hard. 

And then Sam’s hands cover his ass, spreading out there like he owns it. 

Dean tries to steady his breathing. “Sam.”

“I’m here, Dean.” 

Sam’s hands wander to his sides, over his chest, enclosing him in an embrace. He pulls Dean upright against him, until they’re back to chest, and fuck, skin on skin with nothing between them. Sam’s hands caress his ribcage, slowly and with care, and he’s mouthing along Dean’s spine. Dean is panting, his chest heaving under Sam’s touch, with Sam like a furnace against his back, enveloping Dean in warmth. 

What do they look like, what would a stranger see in them if he saw them?

Lovers. Not brothers. But brothers is what they are, what they have always been, and the other is unthinkable, unimaginable. 

Sam’s hair tickles his neck, his lips press a kiss to Dean’s nape. The chains clink as Dean’s head falls forward, as he’s giving in to Sam, shuddering. 

“When did it happen, Dean?” Sam whispers into his ear. “When did you first want me?”

“There was never a time when I didn’t want you,” Dean admits, and it feels like it’s another person speaking, not him. “I always wanted you, I just didn’t – I didn’t know what it meant.”

“When did you?”

“I was – fifteen? Sixteen?”

“When you were at Sonny’s – did you …?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “And I couldn’t – I couldn’t lose you. I should have stayed with him, for your sake. But I couldn’t.”

“I missed you,” Sam speaks the words against the skin of Dean’s neck. “In Stanford. I couldn’t admit it, not even to myself; I tried so hard not to. I missed to hear your breathing, at night, the rhythm, how long it takes for you to inhale – when you fall asleep, when you’re in deep sleep, when you’re dreaming - it’s always a little different. When we were little, I used to wake up at night and I heard you just breathing in and out and I knew what time it was. Jess … her breathing was quieter. Lighter. Not what I was used to, and then sometimes I had to get up and out of bed and I checked the doors and the salt lines, because that’s when I felt closer to you.”

“Sam,” Dean whispers. 

“It was only half of me in Stanford, Dean, and I tried so hard to make up for it – tried so hard to pretend. Focused on my grades, and on Jessica, because I told myself she was what wanted – only she wasn’t. When we got back on the road – I hated myself for feeling like I was whole again, even though she was gone. I missed her, but – not as I’d missed you.”

“You never said,” Dean says in wonder. 

“What could I have said, Dean? That her death meant that I couldn’t deny it anymore?”

Sam holds him close, whispers the words as an urgent confession. “That I had lost her, but that being with you felt like home, felt like – like something that I shouldn’t want, something that condemned me more than whatever was wrong with me. The demon blood. When I realized that Azazel had tainted me – I thought that my feelings for you were his fault too.”

“He didn’t feed his blood to me,” Dean says. “What excuse do I have?”

“You don’t need an excuse,” Sam says. “Not you, not me. Stop thinking like that. It is what it is, Dean.”

Suddenly Sam pulls him up, pushes a thigh between his legs and forces them apart, manhandles him until Dean is straddling his lap. Sam’s dick is hot and hard between his legs. 

“Fuck,” Dean whispers, he’s hot and cold at the same time, his throat dry as chalk.

“Have you ever been fucked, Dean?”

Dean shakes his head, numbly, and Sam’s hand wanders down his chest, touching his navel with a thumb, calluses tugging at the fine hair of his happy trail as it slides downward. He doesn’t touch Dean’s dick, but his fingers dig into the inside of his thigh, his thumb resting on his pubic bone, just above.

“But you’re going to let me.”

He squeezes Dean’s thigh, making Dean gasp. He tries to get a hold of Sam’s arm to stop him, but it’s useless, the rope is pulled too taut. “Fuck you. I’m not –”

“You will.” Sam says, voice so rough and gravelly that it makes Dean suck in a sharp breath. Sam thrusts his hips forward slowly, between Dean’s legs. “You want to.”

And he’s right. Dean wants it, wants it badly. Sam’s strength, pushing inside of him, holding him down. So close that there’s no space left between them, finally, all the barriers gone.

“Then what are you waiting for,” Dean whispers, and this time it’s Sam whose breath stops – whose hands grip Dean’s thighs even harder before letting go. 

“Wait. Just ...”

“Hurry the fuck up.” 

Because he might lose his mind if Sam makes him wait, or maybe the opposite, he’s going to wake from this surreal dream, to a reality where Sam hates him, stares him down with cold eyes.

Seconds later Sam is back and Dean hears a click, the sound of something being squirted out of a bottle. Then Sam’s hands are on him, between his ass cheeks.

“Spread your legs,” Sam says, and Dean does, so that Sam can slide between them, his fingers seeking out Dean’s hole, smearing some kind of gel – _lube_ – all over it. Dean closes his eyes, tries to keep his breathing even as Sam pushes in with a finger, tries not to think about when he last took a dump. Anal isn’t his favorite thing when it’s the other way round, too messy, too much prep, and why take the backdoor when the girl has a wet, clenching pussy right there? 

But this is Sam, and somehow Dean has always known that of the two of them, he’s the more vanilla one. Sam obviously knows what he’s doing, he’s going slow, but not too slow, soothing Dean by stroking his back, murmuring into his ear, “You’re doing so well,” and, “Like this, yeah.”

Dean is panting even before Sam pulls out his fingers.

“I’m going to fuck you,” Sam says. He leans forward, hair brushing Dean’s shoulders. He licks at the sweat of Dean’s neck, bites him, possessive and mean, making it hurt. Dean shudders helplessly, thinks how the bite mark will show, how everyone’s going to know that he’s Sam’s, that he let Sam tie him up and fuck him, his little brother, and shudders again as Sam says, “Ask me.”

“No.”

Sam’s hands slide down his shoulders and over his arms, until they reach his wrists, tied by rope and steel, gripping them tightly. He’s pressed against Dean everywhere, hot and solid and overwhelming. 

“I need you to say it, Dean, or it’s not going to happen.” Sam’s dick is nudging at him, a tease.

As if. As if Dean is that desperate.

“Dean,” Sam whispers, his irregular breath grazing Dean’s skin. “I’m kinda … flying blind here too. I need to know we’re on the same page.”

And that – that gets to Dean more than it should have, because he can’t resist Sam pleading like this, sounding young and unsure, even though Dean is the one wearing the blindfold. Sam’s pleading for this, asking for his trust. 

Dean inhales, leans back into Sam. Turns his head to the side, seeking out Sam’s lips, and breathes his words against them. “Do it, Sam. Fuck me. I want you to.” 

Sam kisses him urgently and Dean nearly loses his balance, until Sam pulls him close, then loses himself in the kiss. It’s good, it’s so fucking good. He’s out of breath when they finally break apart, Sam’s forehead resting against his. 

“I’m still pissed at you,” Sam admits.

Dean, like a mindless puppet, chases after him, licks over Sam’s bottom lip, can’t get enough of kissing Sam, tasting him. Sam gives in, sighs in sweet surrender and lets Dean in when he probes with his tongue.

Until Sam pulls back. “Stop. I mean it, Dean. This, here – it doesn’t change how I feel. This –” 

Dean hates that he’s still tied up, held in place when what he wants is to get his hands on Sam, reel him back in, make him shut up.

“All I said is still true,” Sam says.

“Yeah,” Dean forces out. 

“And if we do this, you stick to my rules. You do as I say.”

“I thought we went through his already.”

Sam lets out a breath. “Right.” 

He shuffles a little, leaving Dean’s side. And Dean says nothing and listens as Sam squirts more lube out of the bottle and strokes himself. Wait – what? 

“You’re not – you need a condom?” Dean asks.

“Not going to use one,” Sam says roughly, and it’s a bit of a shock. “This is us, and I want you to feel me, so I’m going to fuck you bare until you’re dripping wet from my come, is that clear enough for you?” 

Dean coughs, his throat dry and his head spinning, as if he’s drunk on the best kind of booze. “Totally clear.”

Sam snorts, then proceeds to smear lube on his dick, squirts out more and lets it drip down Dean’s ass crack. Dean hisses. He already feels wet and sticky where Sam fingered him open, and it’s – _weird_ , he’s never felt like this, exposed and naked. Sam spreads his cheeks with his hands, scoops up lube and pushes it into Dean’s ass. 

“I’m going to do it now,” he says, and Dean feels something big and blunt pushing up against his hole, a relentless, steady pressure. 

Dean takes deep breaths. He’s never been on the receiving end of a dick’s attention, never wanted to, not consciously. But this isn’t for him, this is for Sam, and a part of him obviously wants it, the part that is hot and hard and leaking between his legs. 

Finally the ring of muscles gives in and Sam slides inside. He doesn’t stop, just keeps pushing while Dean bites his tongue and tries to keep breathing, because fuck, it hurts. Sam slides back, pushes in again, keeps going until he’s bottomed out, splitting Dean’s ass pretty much in half. 

Sam’s inside of him, and Dean feels him, completely, as if Sam’s dick is reaching places in his cheap, battered soul that nothing else has ever touched. Sam. Sammy, his little brother. _No._ Nothing’s little about this, not the hot, hard dick inside him, forcing him open, not the man who is bent over him, holding him in place and panting in his ear. This is big, this is fucking big, and Dean – Dean can only take it, bear it, as Sam slowly sets up a pace, sliding in and out with too much friction, but the steady rhythm starts losing Dean up a little, bit by bit, until it’s not that raw anymore, but still alien, an intrusion that would be literally unbearable if it weren’t Sam. How do women do this? How do they see some random stranger in a bar, and make the decision to fuck him? Let him in? 

“Dean,” Sam says. “Are you with me?”

Dean swallows. “Yeah.”

“Good.” Sam pushes in again, and Dean shivers as Sam’s balls, slap his ass, imagines what he must look like, so fucking obscene.

“Do you feel me?” Sam punctuates it with a hard thrust, pushing Dean against the bed, pushing the air out of his lungs with a shocked sob. “Do you feel me?”

Dean’s hands clutch at the bedding. “Sam. Sammy.” Like he can feel anything else, like he’s got room for anything else, as if there’s ever been something that demanded his attention the same way Sam does. As if, when push comes to shove, _oh fuck, what a crappy pun,_ Sam isn’t his whole world anyway. 

“Yeah, I do,” Dean forces out, shouldn’t it be obvious by now? 

“Good,” Sam says again. “Because you’re mine, Dean. Come on, say it, admit it.”

Dean is starting to feel lightheaded. At some point, his dick obviously decided that getting fucked up the ass is something it’s interested in, even though it still hurts more than it feels good. Sam has pretty much abandoned all first-time decency and is positively _pounding_ him. But Dean’s dick is hard again, and he hisses whenever Sam pushes him against the bed, because anything that provides friction is just out of reach, and the touch of the fabric from the comforter is a maddening tease. 

And it’s true, it’s true, always has been. “You’re gonna put a ring on me, Sam?” 

Because even now, he’s still Dean Winchester, and Sam, whatever he says, is still his brother.

“If that’s what it takes for you to get it,” Sam says, as if Dean had meant it serious. “And a collar and a leash for good measure.” 

“For fuck’s sake, I’m not your bitch, Sam!”

Sam, stilling, leans over him, circling his wrists. “Keep telling yourself that.” Mocking, amused, and Dean wants to knee him in the balls, but he’s held in place by Sam’s bulk and the ties. “Fuck you.”

“You’re the one getting fucked, Dean, and you love every second of it.” Sam cants his hips, just a little, and thrusts up into him, and Dean gasps because – _fuck._ “And if you ask me nicely, you’ll get to come.” 

“In your dreams,” Dean grits out, and Sam laughs, honest to god laughs, and starts fucking him again, short, hard thrusts, forcing grunts and groans from Dean’s throat. 

It feels like they’re sparring, with both of them fighting to hold on, to make the other break first, and Dean always wanted to know what Sam was like in bed, thought he was considerate and careful, and maybe he is, with girls, but not with Dean, not with the way he’s holding Dean in place with one hand on his back and one on his hips, fingers digging in and leaving bruises. They’re both panting, but Sam, who has better stamina, does this like it’s a long endurance run, and Dean wonders how long he can keep going.

Long, as it turns out. Dean looses any sense of time; the only thing that matters is Sam, until his ass is fucked out and loose and Sam slides in and out with ease, until he’s forced Dean’s body into submission and his mind in a place where nothing exists but this. By then, Dean needs to come so badly it’s unreal, and Sam still doesn’t give him anything. Dean’s along for the ride, he’s just hanging on and that – that is okay, as long as Sam is there with him. 

At some point, Dean gives in, melts into the bed, lets it take his weight, doesn’t even care about getting off anymore, just lets Sam have his way with him. If he gets to come, fine, but this isn’t for him, not the way it is for Sam, and just like that, all resistance goes out of him, he’s been literally fucked into compliance. 

Sam groans behind him. “Dean.” He must be getting close, his thrusts have something of a desperate frenzy now. He starts talking, urgently, as if it’s killing him to keep quiet, forcing the words out between labored breaths. His arms are wound tight around Dean’s waist, keeping him upright. 

“Never thought – Dean, this is it, do you get it? This is us, and I – fuck, Dean, I want you, I always want you. Like this, together, and I – want – fuck, I...”

“Yeah,” Dean says, with a throat that is too dry and a voice that is barely able to form words, gritty, low, “I get it, come on man, you got this – let go, Sam, give it to me, Sammy, _please._ ”

Sam groans, pushes into him, and stills. Shudders through his orgasm, coming inside Dean, and Dean pushes back against him, wants it, wants it all, clenches around Sam deliberately just to hear Sam make this desperate, broken sound. 

“Get me off. Sam, get me off, or I swear -”

“Dean.” Sam’s hand slips down, finally, fucking finally, closes around Dean’s dick and strokes, and Dean nearly goes out of his mind, seizing up as he keens after a half dozen pulls, with Sam still hard inside him. He shoots all over the bed, and it seems to go on forever. Sam holds him through it, waits out the aftershocks, both of them fighting for air.

They slump down on the bed after, Sam’s weight on top of him, his hot breath tickling Dean’s ears, wafting over the cooling sweat. Sam’s dick slips out, with something wet trickling down Dean’s thigh in the wake, and it’s pretty much the most disgusting thing he’s ever felt. And yet it gives him a secret thrill, a possessive feeling that makes no sense. 

Everything’s sticky with sweat, lube and come, and it’s pretty gross. 

Dean wriggles under Sam, and Sam groans and slowly separates them, with skin pulling on skin. Dean winces.

“Okay,” Sam says. “I guess … I need a shower.”

“You gonna untie me first?”

“Huh? Yeah, sure.” That’s a hint of embarrassment, maybe, and Sam’s quick to pull off the blindfold. Dean blinks against the brightness of the room, while Sam’s getting up to find the key for the handcuffs, and release Dean, finally. 

Dean rolls his shoulders, relieved, pulls his arms toward his chest alternately, rubbing them. He doesn’t look up to meet Sam’s gaze. It’s unsettling, this aftermath of just having fucked your brother. What now? What now? He focuses on evening out his breath, taking stock of his minor aches, the soreness of his muscles. Winces as he clenches his ass and feels stuff leak out. 

“Dean,” Sam says, demanding his attention. He’s standing next to Dean, holding out a hand to him, naked; his cock hanging limp, smeared with lube and come and possibly other stuff too. Slowly, hesitating, Dean takes his arm, lets Sam pull him up, his legs refusing to work for the first few seconds, but Sam’s taking his weight. “Thanks, man.”

“Come one, shower’s big enough for two.”

“No way. Gonna need my fucking privacy in the bathroom, Sam.”

Sam coughs, a blush covering his face. “Right. I’ll … give you a lead.” 

Dean rolls his eyes, then heads to the bathroom. More bow-legged than usual, for sure.

He doesn’t think as he uses the toilet and wipes himself down with a couple of tissues. Considers locking the door, but they never do that, just in case something supernatural comes up, so he’s not going to start now, what is he, a blushing virgin? Dean steps into the shower and angrily turns on the water, ice-cold at first and warming slowly. He turns to face the wall. It’s made of dirty white tiles with carved-in lilies and he rests his forehead against them. _Fuck._

The door opens, and Sam is there. Dean hears him, taking a piss and flushing, but doesn’t look at him. He’s hit with a wave of cold air as the shower stall is opened and Sam steps in with him, putting his hands on Dean’s shoulders.

“You all right?”

“Peachy. You?”

Sam huffs out a laugh. His hands slide downward on Dean’s arms, and it’s so fucking surreal, that they’re doing this. “’m fine, Dean. Come on, let’s get cleaned up, I’m tired.”

It’s awkward, to say the least, both of them lathering up, rinsing, touching accidentally rather than on purpose, even though at one point, Sam washes his back, cards his fingers through Dean’s hair once, and Dean tries not to let it show how much it affects him. 

He’s done first, but Sam’s blocking the door and as Dean straightens himself, ready to push past him. Sam stops him, leaning in for a kiss. It’s slow and thorough and ends with both of them wrapped around each other, breathless, Dean mapping out Sam’s skin with his hands, getting to touch, finally, miles and miles of warm, smooth skin, and it’s fucking weird, having to tilt his head up to kiss, having Sam cup his face like he’s precious. 

Then the hot water runs out and puts an abrupt stop to it. 

Dean is the first to dry himself off and get out of the bathroom. Sam’s cleaned up the mess, the stained pillow and comforter thrown on a chair, the rope and handcuffs gone. Dean looks for clean boxers and a t-shirt in his duffel bag. By the time he’s pulled both on, drunk some water, and is sitting down on his bed, exhausted, Sam is out of the bath. Dean looks up briefly, but can’t really meet his gaze, because fuck, what is this even?

Sam, wearing nothing but a towel and the flush from the showers, looks at him with raised eyebrows, but when Dean doesn’t say anything, goes about his evening routine quietly. 

Dean lies down on the bed on his back, pulling the duvet up to his arms, and stares at the ceiling. He’s too riled up to sleep and too wiped out to get his shit together. 

Sam changes into boxers and a tank top, locks the door, checks the salt line and turns off all the lights but one. He approaches the bed, a little hesitant, and sits down on the edge of Dean’s bed. 

“Dean?”

“What now.” Dean refuses to turn his head. 

“We still need to talk.”

“You’re kidding me,” Dean says. “Man, you suck at aftercare.”

Sam huffs, and Dean doesn’t know whether it’s exasperation or embarrassment. A second later, Sam carefully slides under the blanket, stretching out next to him. Dean raises an eyebrow. 

Sam smiles a little, shrugs, and then proceeds to make himself comfortable. And wow, if it was awkward before, then it’s the really fucking weird now. They haven’t shared a bed for years. And then, in a move that’s stealthy and neat at the same time, Sam manhandles him onto his side and curls up against his back. 

Dean makes a pained noise of protest. 

Sam huffs, puts an arm around him and a leg, pretty much pinning him in place. “Stay still.”

It doesn’t suck as much as it should. In fact, not at all, even though it’s really weird to be the little spoon.

Sam’s forehead is pressed against the back of Dean’s head. If Dean decided to knock him out with a vicious headbutt, Sam would be down for the count with a broken nose.

“You’re right, I suck at this,” Sam admits, softly. “What we did, that was pretty intense, and I don’t know – did I go too far?” 

It’s not an easy question. Dean thinks about it, while Sam’s hands draw slow, careful circles on his stomach. “Nah. I guess – you did what you had to. And it was fine, it was – good.”

Sam shakes his head, his wet hair grazing Dean’s nape. Dean shifts away from it, then subsides with a huff.

“I tied you up and fucked you. Not exactly routine for us.”

Dean snorts at that. “No. Second thoughts?”

“No, not really. It was – it was pretty much the only way for me to handle this. I won’t lie to you, Dean – I know I was blackmailing you, but you left me no other choice. And I needed a way – a way to cope with it. Be in control for a while.”

“I get it,” Dean says. 

“But I’m sorry if I made you do something you didn’t want.”

“Sam -”

“Just let me say this, all right? If you don’t want to keep doing this – I won’t make you. You don’t have to sleep with me if you don’t want to.”

“Sam.”

“We don’t have to keep doing this. But I don’t regret it, not really, because ...”

“Sam!”

Sam falls quiet, and Dean groans. “Did it look like I didn’t want it, Sam? You made me come so hard I almost blacked out. And I - I wouldn’t have told you. You’re right, I – was running. And you made me stop. I can deal with that.”

“Can you?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says. It will take time to get used to it. But he can’t pretend he doesn’t want it, not after all these years, not after everything that happened today. 

“Good,” Sam says. “But we need to stick to some rules.”

“Rules,” Dean repeats, hoping his tone conveys how much he isn’t up for that kind of discussion right now.

Sam is quiet, breathing softly behind him, stroking his stomach and side. 

After a second, Dean sighs. Relaxes into it, a little bit. “What kind of rules.”

“You and me, Dean. The whole way. No take-backs, no outs, and no lies. If we gotta make decisions, we make them together. And if one of us dies – no deals, no nothing. If it’s me … you let me go, or you come with me, but you don’t bring me back. You don’t decide things over my head. Never again.”

Dean takes a deep breath. “All right.”

“Things like these –“ Sam touches the mark of Cain, sending a jolt through Dean, and not a pleasant one. “We deal with them, together. Make it up as we go along, like we always do. But it’s gotta be both of us.” 

“Yeah, okay.”

“And you stop acting like a martyr. I don’t want to die any more than you, and I don’t want you to lose you, all right? That’s pretty much the last thing I want. No taking bullets for me.”

Dean can’t promise him that, takes a deep breath to say as much, but Sam stills him with a finger on his lips, the softest, briefest touch. “Let me finish. I know it won’t be easy for you. And if you screw up – then we’ll think of something, but you better not, because I really can’t bear any more of your crap.”

“All right.”

“And there are other things besides hunting. There’s a future for us, one that’s ours, and we’re going to find it. I don’t care if you can see it or not – I can, and I’m going to take you there, all the way.”

“Picket fence life, Sammy?” 

“Not exactly. Close enough, though, something to fit us both. I was thinking along the lines, a school for hunters - with the bunker as headquarters. And in a few years, when the business is up and running – maybe a house in Lebanon, or close by. Small garage, small garden. A dog.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “A fucking dog?”

“A dog,” Sam says. 

Dean sighs. There’s a bit of unease in all of it, and he needs to know what else is included. “What do we do about this, Sammy? You and me?” 

“Whatever we want,” Sam says. “As long as we both want it.”

“What about you, Sam?” Dean turns his head to look at Sam, and Sam lets him. 

His face is open, honest, and even a little vulnerable. “It’s going to take some time to trust you again. And I … might need to be in control for a while.”

Dean snorts. He’d smack Sam’s chest if he weren’t so tired, if sex and the shower and the emotional wringer Sam put him through hadn’t pretty much powered him out.

“Admit it, you just want to top.”

There’s a hint of a smile. “Didn’t hear you complaining.” Then Sam shakes his head. “I need to know what’s going on in your mind. If that means that I have to tie you up and spank you, make you give it up for me, then that’s what we’re gonna do.”

“All right,” Dean says. 

He can live with that. He can live with it, knowing that it’s Sam, who already knows his darkest secrets, all of them. “Awesome. Can we sleep now?”

“In a minute.”

Dean groans. “What now.” 

“Just – I love you, Dean. Not – I’m not gonna embarrass you by making you talk about your feelings, it’s just – you should know.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, slowly. “All right.” 

“Gonna try blowjobs in the morning,” Sam mutters, and his breath evens out, his hands come to rest on Dean’s skin, possessive and casual at the same time. 

“You bet,” Dean says softly. Sam doesn’t reply, but his fingers twitch once as he drifts off to sleep.

It’s this: lying in bed, with Sam a warm, steady presence at his back. Not really a clue about what just happened, what it all means. Dean closes his eyes, and sleeps.

~~~~~  
Dawn breaks and Sam’s hair is soft under his hands, his eyes blinking open as Dean kisses him, slow and sweet. Sam smiles at him and it’s pretty much everything Dean ever wanted, and never thought he could have. 

That he’s going to keep it is not a given; he knows as much. He’s screwed up one too many times, and that’s not going to resolve itself easily. But Sam has given him a chance, and Dean’s not going to waste this one, he has made promises he’s damn well going to keep.

It’s this: the world laid out for him, gritty and dark as the empty road, and a silver lining at the horizon that may be impossible to reach. But with Sam by his side, Dean has reason to try.


End file.
